


stuff i’ve turned in

by iHateBananas



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iHateBananas/pseuds/iHateBananas
Summary: A collection of works i’ve turned into my english teacher





	1. the sun

**Author's Note:**

> free verse poetry  
> this piece has some references to the myth of Icarus so if you’re confused I’m so sorry

I am fifteen years old and I’m already tired.

I want more than what my life can offer. I want a small apartment in some far away city. I want to wake up warm and happy. Take my time and drink coffee as the city glows with the morning sun. I want little potted plants with dumb names and a cat that finds itself curled around my neck as I work. I want to spend my evenings cooking old recipes while singing my favorite songs. I want to go to small cafes during slow hours and read for hours. I want to fall asleep watching the red light of the city, falling in love between books and city blocks. I want to love being alive.

I am fifteen years old and I don’t have a choice. It’s funny, the only things I want are so achievable for everyone who isn’t me. I can never have what I want. I am Icarus chasing the sun, and like him I will crash and sink deep into the ocean’s cold embrace. one touch of the sun and I will melt, fall, and sink. I am fifteen years old and I am in love, but its with words on a page, the smell of coffee, afternoon sun shining through clean windows, sunflowers and grape vines, running barefoot in the grass, the smell of cheap paints, and laugher bubbling in my throat.

People always love stories of star-crossed lovers. Well here’s another.


	2. Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw//  
> abuse

There’s a thrumming pulse of panic swimming in my veins.   
My body shakes like a fly caught in a spider’s web.  
I will not let my façade of calm crack.   
Not in the face of my screaming sister.   
Not facing the back of my shaking mother.   
Not while they scratch and scream and yell obscenities in each other’s faces.   
I step between them.   
Take my mothers hand and make her sit down.   
Guide my sister to her room and tell her to call if she needs help with anything.   
I wash the dishes.   
I fold the laundry.  
My mother is slumped on the floor sobbing and I hold her hands.   
I do not crack.   
The delicate web of comforting and suffocating is one I know well.   
I do not mention my father, nor my sister.  
I assure her again and again:  
Don’t worry I’ll do the laundry.  
No, it’s okay mama I already finished the dishes.  
Yes, she loves you don’t say that.   
I smile and it feels like a pane of glass on my face.  
I do not crack.


	3. fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quick tw for vomit!!! take care of yourselves babies 💗💗

Bile is a familiar taste. It’s a constant thick feeling in the back of his throat. Time escapes him and he doesn’t know- another shudder rips though his body and its more and more difficult to keep his head up. The floor is wet, and he can’t tell if its water or sick. Is the room dark or are his eyes so broken that he can’t see? The wet feeling is climbing up his pant leg and are they filling the room with water? For a moment he remembers who they are, but the thought slips through his hands like sand and he’s left scrambling for the memory. His head lolls into cold. He tries swinging it up but its so heavy and it would be easier to just lie there. Wet soaks his shirt and time escapes him. It gets colder and colder until it gets hot. Its suffocating. He strips his shirt and pants, but the heat continues to build and build. He closes his eyes (they were open?) and gives.   
Matthew jots awake. Warm sunshine flutters from the window, illuminating the mess he made the day before. He slumps against his pillow. The details are already fading from his mind. All he can discern is the feeling of cold, but its warm now and he can hear his cat yowling outside of his bedroom door. Its okay, he’s okay. He braces himself to stand when his vision cuts to dark. The floor is wet under his feet. No. He can’t feel anything, only the cold biting at his feet. He throws up, and it’s a familiar taste.


End file.
